Valentine's Day Is Killing Me (9 page)

“I know. We called that professor she said to call, and sure enough, dude was home, he comes up as legit faculty on the university Web site. Chances are, this chick is registered there as a student—easy enough to determine. But it ain’t like we haven’t had grad students that work a neat circuit before.”

“Yeah, but not like this one,” Ray said, beginning to pace. “Something ain’t right. It sticks in my craw. If what she says happened the way it did, I’d hate to ruin this chick’s life. By the same token, though, she’s fine enough to be Phat’s woman, or a top-rung pick—know what I mean?”

“I feel you,” Raul said, his eyes never leaving the two-way mirror. “Besides, you think women get all that upset about a stupid holiday? I mean, to…you know…throw a party for their girlfriends, and then other people start filling in the gaps, and whatever? I mean, Ray, man, you see the evidence bags?” Raul shook his head. “Some of that equipment was scary…I mean, size-wise, just saying.”

Ray smiled. “We talking about the case or the fact that you forgot to buy roses again this year?”

Raul chuckled. “I’m so far in the doghouse, brother, you might as well throw away my leash. Won’t need it. Tomorrow morning I’ll be at the pound.”

“You just answered your own question, and maybe a few of mine…but, I just don’t know. Loud music, a joint on the back deck, and some exotic products is no reason to completely ruin a woman’s life. However, I’m not about to let crocodile tears, a long, crazy story, and a pretty face be the reason I missed a key informant or witness.”

“That ain’t the kinda crap to lose a badge or shield for, man.” Raul pounded Ray’s fist. “Whatchu wanna do? Your call.”

Ray let his breath out hard, thinking out loud as he spoke. “I’ma call my boy, Marcus. Ask him to do me a favor, since he owes me one, and have him give girlfriend some legal advice, since she’s a most likely broke coed, then let her go and follow her. Her bank accounts show up real slim digits, no real big credit, no flashy car, modest apartment, low-key day gig, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a secret stash.” Ray rubbed his chin. “If Phat circles back in a few days, or she goes to him, and I can’t imagine him staying away from her long…at least she’ll have representation—will know what she’s up against, then me and Marc can work on cutting an information deal. I’m just mad that the bastard slipped down the back fire escape and got away with his boy.”

“That’s crossing the line, man,” Raul said carefully. “The
providing an attorney
part.”

All previous mirth had dissipated. Both men stood shoulder to shoulder and stared forward at the nervous woman who couldn’t see them.

Ray nodded, watching Jocelyn take tiny sips of coffee as her pretty hands trembled. “I know. But the thing I hate most about seeing young women get hooked up with these roughnecks is them not realizing their legal position. They have no clue that just because their man is doing illegal crap, even if they aren’t directly, they can go up the river for a very long time. That’s why I want my boy to talk to her, get into her head, and make her think about the ramifications of staying with one of these guys. Marcus knows his shit, cold. Is excellent at what he does, so she won’t get no jackleg advice. This one has a brain, is too intelligent, and seems like she comes from a decent family that would flatline if they knew she was caught up in any of this. Hopefully, after she starts thinking, figures out how precarious her situation is, and all that she has to lose…”

“Man, you’re dreaming. You know it doesn’t work like that. They go for the bling bling, the money. They’re also scared to death of retaliation and won’t talk, which you
know
is real.” Raul chuckled sadly. “Besides, trying to save this one might get your boy killed. Marc ain’t gonna be able to help himself; he’ll push up on this one for sure—a damsel in distress, too?” Raul walked away from the window and held the doorknob. “Plus, you know he won’t violate attorney-client privilege, even for you, if you’re angling for inside—”

“I’m not, and that wouldn’t hold up under any judge. I want this one to have a shot at getting untangled, if she’s innocent.”

“Can’t save ’em all, man,” Raul said quietly. “Can’t fix what happened to Sharon…or your sister. It wasn’t your fault.”

Raymond didn’t answer.

Raul opened the door. “But I can tell your mind is already made up. Got that look in your eye. Jaw muscle’s jumpin’. Okaaaay, partner. You sure your mind is set?”

“Yeah. It is. Marcus owes me.”

Her mouth felt yucky, like a wad of nasty cotton had been shoved into it. She was freezing cold; goose bumps covered her arms and set her teeth on edge. Her eyes were puffing and felt like sandpaper had replaced the insides of her lids. She was sure that her hair was standing on top of her head, and knew her face looked a fright.
Bone-weary
didn’t come close to describing it as she made her way out of the interrogation room, down a long, ugly greenish-gray corridor, under glaring fluorescent lights.

No money in her pockets—how was she going to get home, on a SEPTA bus, with no coat, in the dead of winter, wearing what looked like a hooker’s outfit? Logistics and new realities pummeled Jocelyn’s already embattled brain. She had no purse, no ID, no keys to even get back into her apartment, were she to find a way there. Hitchhike? Not. And wind up back in the slammer for soliciting? Pullease. Every friend she had was AWOL, not that she had a cell phone on her, and if she did take the cops up on a phone call offer, who would she be able to reach?

Calling her mother was out of the question—that’s all she needed, was for her mother to have a heart attack at the station’s front desk. Althea Jefferson would fall out, dead away, from a horror stroke. The woman would literally have a cow.

However, the lure of freedom from incarceration made Jocelyn step up her pace. At least the kind officer had half listened to her story, even though he’d been a hard ass. Imagine,
her
, of all people, supposedly dating some drug-thug kingpin? It was too insane. Maybe instead of writing her dissertation she could write an action-adventure novel, given that her career was probably in shreds by now.

Jocelyn froze when the large double doors opened and her professor stood before her, nervously shifting from foot to foot in his tweed wool coat. If she could have disappeared into the toes of her red mesh slippers, she would have—and she seriously considered clicking her heels three times to wake up back in Kansas. Oh, God…Professor Benjamin Bryant, perhaps the most dignified black man she knew, outside of her dad, could not be standing in the outer lobby of a police station, waiting for her! She blinked twice, hoping he was a mere hysteria-induced mirage. But he was there, all right, standing tall and proud, his shoulders back, his warm brown eyes holding a hundred questions, his jaw locked, chin thrust up in pure disgust as he smoothed his palm over his perfectly barbered, salt-and-pepper hair.

Without much ado, he used his tightly clasped brown leather gloves to motion that they should leave. Jocelyn simply nodded, too mortified even to utter a thank-you, and she followed him out to the front lot.

“When they called me to verify your claims that you were, indeed, one of my students,” he said in a fatherly, disappointed tone, “I could not believe my ears. I came down to see for myself. I knew there had to be some mistake.” He flung open the passenger door of his Volvo and shook his head as Jocelyn climbed into the seat. “Here,” he said, extracting a coat from the backseat. “The detective told me you weren’t properly robed for the weather. That’s when I knew I had to come downtown.”

Jocelyn kept her lips firmly sealed as a warm, luxurious mink coat flowed over her legs. She peered down at it, and then up at the professor.
Mink
?

“It was my wife’s,” he said curtly, and slid into the driver’s seat, gunned the engine, and careened away.

She wasn’t sure if it was outrage at the hour, the situation, or the indignity of being anywhere near a police station that made this normally staid professor drive like he was auditioning for NASCAR…maybe it was a combination of everything, so she kept her mouth shut until he pulled into a parking space before her building.

“Professor Bryant,” she said quietly, “I can’t even begin to explain all this, but it’s not what it looks like.”

His eyes were fixed on some unknown point beyond the windshield. His jaw pulsed. Not a good sign.

“You were my most promising student. I thought you had your head together. I am beyond disappointed.
Devastated
would be a better description.”

She hated the way he wouldn’t look at her, and the tone of his voice. It cut to the bone. He spoke in the past tense—
were
. She was no longer his promising student, and her career was over, just as she’d imagined. Her father’s face flashed before her eyes, disappointment looming in his expression, and suddenly her voice felt shaky.

Jocelyn smoothed the sleek fur on her lap and delicately folded it and drew a long breath. “I am so sorry, but I am none of the things I may appear to be, sir. Thank you, more than words can say, for coming to my rescue tonight. Maybe, one day, you’ll let me explain it all, but I certainly understand your position.” With that she reached for the door and unlocked it.

“Where are you going?” Professor Bryant’s attention snapped toward her and he turned in his seat to study her with a frown.

Jocelyn froze and just looked at him for a moment. “Inside.”

“Alone? Are you insane? Your doors have been left open all night. This is an urban environment—I wouldn’t even do that in Chestnut Hill, let alone down here.” He shook his head, thrust the coat back toward her, and got out of the car in a huff. “Surely you need someone to go through your place and check it out. There could be intruders. Not to mention, you should list anything, immediately, that is missing. These unsavory friends of yours could have doubled back to rob you blind!”

He began walking ahead of her. She followed him, stunned. That part of this whole drama had never occurred to her.

Jocelyn’s heart was pounding so hard she thought a rib might crack. As she got to the door, the only person she knew would probably be awake was her nosy neighbor, Mrs. Schwartz. The old bat was probably also the one who’d called the cops, so it would serve her right to have to buzz her in.

They waited as the crotchety voice filled the intercom. When Mrs. Schwartz began to fuss, Jocelyn lost her cool.

“Haven’t you done enough already?” Jocelyn shouted. “My keys are in my apartment, my professor is out here in the cold, and I got hauled down to the station for a party—because you called the cops—so the least you could do is let me in out of the February cold to a place where I pay rent each month!”

The buzzer sounded and Jocelyn leaned on the door, furious. Professor Ben Bryant followed her up the steps but insisted on taking the lead once they reached the top landing. He bent and found her glasses on the floor and handed them to her.

“You stand in the hallway with your neighbor, and if it’s all clear, then come in. If you hear voices, call 9-1-1. All right?”

Jocelyn nodded, but glared at Mrs. Schwartz, who was hanging on the professor’s every word. It seemed like the old lady was taking unusual delight in the living stage play happening right before her in the hall.

Too angry to move, and not trusting herself not to reach out and snatch the old buzzard by her throat, Jocelyn set her crooked glasses upon the bridge of her nose and folded her arms, wearing the mink like a very expensive cape. She would not say a mumbling word to the old goat who remained defiant and triumphant beside her in the hall, her flowered housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers and oily old scarf covering blue-white hair and pink rollers. Nope. It would degrade to a screaming match. When Mrs. Schwartz neared her to touch the coat, Jocelyn almost growled, and the old woman wisely backed off with a shrug.

“You didn’t do too bad for yourself tonight,” Mrs. Schwartz said, admiring the coat with a yellowed-denture grin. “He’s not bad, either. A little old for you, but a looker.”

Jocelyn kept her eyes forward and affixed to the open apartment door. Assault and battery was not out of the question if the old bird didn’t stop.

“All clear,” Professor Bryant said, his normal calm returning to his voice. He gave Mrs. Schwartz a dismissive glare and opened the door wider for Jocelyn to enter, and then abruptly shut the door.

“Begin at the beginning, Jocelyn,” he said evenly, and began removing his coat as he sat down on her sofa.

She briefly closed her eyes, removed the mink coat cape, and laid it beside him. “How about if I make some tea as I talk? You do deserve an explanation.” She accepted his slight nod as a yes, and watched him scan her apartment from the corner of her eye while she slipped into the kitchen.

“If you hand me some plastic wrap and a garbage bag, I can help begin to get this ruination in order.”

“You’ve done enough, already, sir. Let me—”

“I need to walk and think as you talk. You know that’s my teaching style, anyway.”

He smiled, but it didn’t hold as much venom as his tone had earlier. She was glad he was calming down enough to listen, because she certainly didn’t have the energy to argue. She handed him a box of cling-wrap through the kitchen pass-through and a big, black trash bag, and then began talking a mile a minute as she found tea, put on hot water, and located both sugar and honey.

She kept her back to him as she explained. She didn’t want to see the man’s face—didn’t want to see pity or disbelief in it, or worse, pure disgust. She’d been through enough humiliation for a lifetime. So, she just spilled her guts and cleaned up the kitchen, and waited for the water to boil.

When she returned to the room, he’d taken off his coat and was sitting on the sofa, his gaze going out the window.

“Wow. You did all that,
that
fast?” It was nothing short of amazing. The man had dumped everything, glasses and all; food was gone, platters, everything, but the room was much improved.

He chuckled. “I used to be in the military, and have a penchant for removing clutter.” He accepted her tea with grace and sipped it slowly, glimpsing her over the top of his horn-rimmed glasses. “But now I understand what happened here.”

She let her breath out in a rush, and almost spilled her tea. “Professor Bry—”

“Ben,” he said in a low, warm tone. “I guess we’re friends now that I’ve retrieved you from the police station.”

She laughed and sipped her tea. “That does remove some formality, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, but his smile was just a half-smile, and his eyes searched hers. The gaze was penetrating, and it set off internal alarm bells. Was she imagining things or was there some type of male vibe happening? True, she’d been through a lot, might be reading things wrong, but as she replayed the timbre of his voice and the expression on his face…aw, Lawd…no…

“Jocelyn, I was worried out of my mind,” he said quietly, setting his tea down on the coffee table. “Then I became angry, because the brightest, most promising woman I’ve encountered since my wife passed away five years ago had, on first glance, done something outrageously foolish that could have jeopardized her entire life.” He smiled sadly and glanced at the trash bag. “But as a widower for five years…I do understand what momentary bouts of loneliness can do to an individual.”

Jocelyn’s cup hung midair between her mouth and the table. Her eyes went to the trash bag. Then down to the coffee table, where the last thing she’d remembered on it was a very kinky product display. Then she instantly remembered hearing the man move the sofa as he tossed things—oh no!

“That stuff wasn’t mine—really. It was, a—”

“I make no judgments and cast no aspersions,” he said, with mischief tugging at his mouth. “You’re a very attractive woman, Jocelyn Jefferson. I have kept my professional distance because it is prudent, and you definitely deserve respect. But if you were not my doctoral fellow, I would have asked you to dinner a long time ago. Since I’ve been the recipient of much too much information tonight, it only seems fair that I also come clean with you. So,” he added with a sigh, “shall we be honest with each other, since a lot has been revealed between us?”

She opened her mouth and then closed it quickly. Her hands were practically shaking as she brought the tea to her lips. This man was at least fifty-something. Like, twice her age—not that she was prejudiced, but it hadn’t occurred to her, really. He was handsome, but…she felt like a crazy woman—why did she tell a man who had been a self-proclaimed celibate widower that she’d been dateless for three years? The kimono suddenly felt too revealing. She slurped her tea to help keep her voice from squeaking.

“I respect the hell out of you, Professor,” she said, and then immediately wished she could swallow away the poor choice of phrase. “I mean, you’re awesome. Uh, and a real knight in shining armor, like nobody ever would believe this madness, and uh, truly I totally appreciate you leaving your home, getting involved in all this nonsense, and for not thinking the worst, uh, but, uh.” Lordy-Miss-Claudy. “Thank you?”

He laughed. The tone of his rich, ebullient voice flowed over her as he stood and collected his tweed coat. She watched him, thinking hard about the very generous dinner offer. Benjamin Bryant was fit, athletic, and intelligent, and she liked his laid-back, gentleman’s gentleman style. He had a way of even making his navy-and-rust herringbone jacket with elbow patches and a pair of corduroy slacks with penny loafers look like a decorated Marine’s uniform.

It made her wonder what he’d look like in a theater tux—probably like a White House diplomat. That fantasy cascaded into snapshot mental images as she tried to fit him into her life’s frame of reference and herself into what she imagined his to be. But the images were a tad askew, and they really didn’t work: her friends, his friends…hmmm…their interests, not sure she was feeling it. She had never paid full attention to him as a possible suitor, but he honestly resembled a darker-hued Colin Powell…and he did exude a quiet charisma that was something to be reckoned with. If the saliva hadn’t burned away from her mouth, she would have gulped when he reached out a hand to bid her to stand.

She got up slowly, and then suddenly covered her mouth. “I threw up at the station,” she shrieked, and dashed from the room.

Baritone laughter echoed down the hall behind her as she snatched up her toothbrush and squeezed a glob of toothpaste on it. From the corner of her eye a dark presence filled the hallway, and she nearly bumped her head on the mirror as her head jerked up.